


Summer Air

by ClassicLitLover



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by The Great Gatsby, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 19:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicLitLover/pseuds/ClassicLitLover
Summary: Nick dwells on the past.





	Summer Air

It was near the middle of July when it occurred. Some two or three years after those reckless events that no longer dominated the fast-moving gossip. It had come by me that he killed a man, Gatsby, the one the stories centered around. A giddy flapper whispered it in my ear at a party one dull night or another. I was inextricably bored with life at the time so I thought “why not?” and decided to take a trip down to see the island where it all happened for myself. 

Long Island was mesmerizing, brilliantly spotted with envied white mansions that extracted an “ooh” or “ah” from most who passed by. The smell of fresh- cut grass and sparkling fountains enlightened my senses that most living there were affluent and prosperous in nearly every way. That day you couldn’t avoid a crowd of tourists bustling around, looking for God-knows-what.Only along the shoreline was it calmer and more suited for audible conversation. There I met my cousin, Mr. Nick Carraway. He was a slender, dark-haired man and appeared to be immersed deep into some troubling amount of thought.

“How do you feel?” I asked, stepping up beside him. “To be back I mean.” Nick was a personal acquaintance of the circle involved in the shooting of Mr. Jay Gatsby. He had attended those brilliant parties so talked up and celebrated on the island. Nick sighed.

“All the memories just come flooding back. The names I’ve tried so hard to leave forgotten. Jordan, Daisy, Tom,... Gatsby.” I nodded.  
“Alright, I’ll get dinner and we can talk.” Fifteen minutes later I returned with two plates of chicken parmesan and salad.

“Tell me about that summer,” I asked. 

“Late July was when most of the things that mattered happened although I rented my place in West Egg in June. The year was 1922, not even a decade ago. The heat made it easy for things to slip out of your head. Important things. The Saturday nights when I didn’t go I would stand out on my porch and listen to the drunken laughter and music.” He took a deep breath.

“There was one morning when I woke up to a car horn, that gorgeous yellow thing of Gatsby’s. He told me we were going to lunch. I got in the car and he spoke to me the way there. Sitting next to him I felt like I was flying, and in that moment were feelings I had hardly felt before. Ones that had been boiling up since the moment I met him.” Nick’s eyes glazed over dreamily. 

“As time passed I became involved with people in his circle. I watched them cheat, fight, drink, dance, and love. People told me things that shocked me. They lied with no apparent shame, shared ludicrous canards, and drank excessively. I found in the general population little regard for politics, religion, or education. By the end of the summer, they had shared with me only a small fragment of the immoral secrets of the lives of the wealthy and careless.” He then faced the crashing waves of the setting sun.  
“Those crazy days… they roll around in my mind constantly.” my cousin muttered.

“Write about them,” I advised him, finishing the last bite of my dish.

“I’m a terrible writer,” he confessed. “Took me forever to pass English in school.” 

“This is different,” I encouraged him. “A memoir, just writing what you saw and what you heard in the most interesting way possible.” Nick nodded slowly. I looked up to see the sky had darkened into a luminous deep purple. For a moment I could’ve sworn that I saw two large watchful eyes flash through the foggy night. I blinked once and they were gone. I walked away from Nick Carraway, who was staring toward the distant horizon across the shining water. With nothing else to do, I shook my head again and again. 

There’s something about that summer air, I thought. That hazy, peculiar summer air that changes everything.


End file.
